Popular memory thinks the summer of ’77 was all about punk, but actually it was about disco. Popular memory is correct when it recalls the Queen’s Silver Jubilee, but popular memory has no recollection at all of one of the most expensive commercial disasters ever associated with Bristol.Eugene Byrnetakes us back.

In the summer of 1977 everyone had a street party to celebrate the Queen’s Silver Jubilee, most people smoked cigarettes (and worried about it), and barely-literate young scrotes used black marker pens to write PUNX on any available flat surface.

Small boys trundled around on skateboards and dreamed of one day being like their older brothers and owning a Ford Capri with furry dice hanging from the rear-view mirror.

The inflation rate was coming down from its postwar high of 24% in 1975, but was still running at a shocking 16%. As prices in the shops rose week by week unionised workers demanded pay rises in order to cope.

Economic woes and industrial unrest spawned political extremism on both the left and the right. The only people Marxists hated more than the overtly racist National Front was the centrist Labour government headed by James Callaghan.

The papers were full of shocking tales of football hooliganism and of the antics of the new “punk rock” band The Sex Pistols, whose fans expressed their admiration for their heroes by spitting on them.

The Sex Pistols, 1977 (Image: (AP Photo/Virgin Records))

Pseudo intellectuals and even Enoch Powell hailed punk as a very British expression of working class youthful rebellion, even though the band’s back-story was one of hype and attention-seeking as old as showbiz itself.

Their November 1976 single ‘Anarchy in the UK’ never made much of an impression in the charts but created a huge stir – and a new youth movement.

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To mark the Queen’s Silver Jubilee, they released the ‘God Save the Queen’ the following year, a deliberate provocation which succeeded in gaining massive radio, TV and press coverage.

But if popular memory gives 1977 to the Pistols and the punk rock era they inspired, the records that were actually selling tell a different story. There was the bland inoffensive stuff your Mum liked and which has now been forgotten; anyone recall such 1977 Number Ones as ‘Chanson D’Amour’ by Manhattan Transfer, or ‘Angelo’ by Brotherhood of Man or ‘Silver Lady’ by David Soul?

Richard Branson posted this photo on Twitter: "Brilliant photo at Virgin Records Bristol, 1977. Can you find these punk kids? Would love to see how they look now!"

What most of the kids were into in ’77 was disco. ‘Saturday Night Fever’ released in the UK in March was still showing in many cinemas that summer and at Number One for four weeks in July was one of the few pop songs from 1977 which people think is still cool, Donna Sumer’s dance anthem, ‘I Feel Love’.

(But let me inflict another 1977 earworm on you to irritate you and those around you for the rest of the day; Kenny Rogers’ No.1 from June that year:

You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille,

With four hungry children an’ a crop in the field…)

The British Establishment worried about all the anger and division in society and, as it always does in troubled times, it hoped the Royal family, specifically the Queen herself, would act as a unifying force.

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Not that there wasn’t cause for celebration. The Queen had been on the throne for 25 years and was admired and respected by the vast majority in Britain, the Commonwealth and the wider world.

The celebrations were massive. On June 6 she lit a bonfire beacon at Windsor Castle, and a chain of beacons across the country were lit through the night.

Ambleside Avenue, Southmead, just one of around 500 Silver Jubilee street parties in Bristol.

In conscious imitation of the signals lit in times of invasion scares, the chain of fire came west to Purdown, Castle Cary, Penn Hill near Wells and onward.

The following day she joined politicians and world leaders for a thanksgiving service at St Pauls followed by lunch at the Guildhall. She told the assembled dignitaries:

“When I was 21, I pledged my life to the service of our people and I asked for God's help to make good that vow. Although that vow was made in my salad days, when I was green in judgement, I do not regret nor retract one word of it.”

In Bristol, the celebrations began with a huge procession, probably the largest the city had ever seen. Bus services were diverted and people lined the route four or five deep, despite constant rain.

Ethel Spiers, aged 82, of Sea Mills told the Post : "I wouldn't have missed it for the world. It's been raining ever since I got here but I don't care a bit."

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The procession featured 140 floats - bigger even than the fabled university Rag processions of the seventies. Bristol Savoy Operatic Society even used the occasion to promote their forthcoming production, Iolanthe. They got their costumes soaked: "We're damp, bumped, bruised but unbowed," said one of the fairies happily.

Even the Post Office, which then ran the phone system, got in on the act, making special Jubilee phones in Balmoral blue with the royal crest and presented them to hospitals around the region.

Broadmead traders had a go, too, but lost 160 of the 180 flags decorating the precinct to vandals.

Broadmead, May 31 1977, all done up for the Jubilee celebrations. Many of the flags would be removed by vandals.

A special Jubilee medal was struck and dozens were handed out to police officers, school teachers, councillors, long-serving employees and others.

At the heart of the celebrations on June 7 were the street parties. There were more than 500 in Bristol alone, and another 5,000 across the county of Avon, where most towns and villages also had bonfires.

Bristol City Council and the Department of Transport bent the rules to allow streets to be closed to traffic so tables could be laid down the middle.

Never mind the unions, the football hooligans, the National Front fascists or the punks; everyone was going to have a good old-fashioned knees-up.

The weather cleared in the afternoon and trestle tables under bunting creaked under the weight of jelly, cake and sandwiches for the kiddies while the women who had organised it all reminisced about the VE Day parties of 1945.

Hardened men of the political left repaired to the pubs and solemnly vowed their continued commitment to the class struggle, but equally vehemently asserted their admiration for the Queen herself.

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To look back at 1977 is also to be reminded of the absolutely vital role that the docks had played in Bristol’s story.

On August 8, the Queen arrived on her Jubilee Tour and officially opened the new £38m dock at Avonmouth.

This would turn out to be a great Bristol success story, an unusual tale of persistence and forward thinking by a Council never renowned for either. For five years it had been described by local wits as Bristol’s biggest-ever hole in the ground, but now it was here, despite bitter opposition, lack of government money, forecasts of doom and secret backstairs lobbying by ports in South Wales.

What would become the Royal Portbury dock had first been planned in 1964, but the original proposal, and another two years later, were knocked back by Whitehall. Finally Edward Heath’s Tory government (which didn’t need to keep any South Wales MPs happy) gave it the go-ahead in 1970.

The Queen and Duke of Edinburgh disembark for a very busy day in Bristol and surrounding towns.

The new West Dock would comprise a 70-acre basin 45ft deep, and with a 1,400ft turning circle in the middle. The massive entrance lock would be 1200ft long and 140ft wide.

In May 1972, John Peyton, the then Conservative Minister of Transport, cut the first sod, though actually he operated a pile-driving machine but – a sign of the times – he first had to obtain a union card to do it!

As the hole grew bigger and bigger, enterprising local coach operators brought sightseers out to take a look.

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Bristol’s city fathers (and mothers) from this period are often harshly judged, particularly for the brutal road and office schemes they approved or pushed through, but in the case of the new dock, they knew there was an unchallengeable business case.

Most shipping approaching the UK came from the south or west and a big dock at Avonmouth would cut up to 24 hours’ steaming time off the journeys of ships going to other UK ports. Besides, the West Dock would be close to two major motorways and rail links to London and the Midlands.

Few working ships came into the City Docks anymore, and the Council had embarked on a long quest to find a new use for them. Meanwhile, it was now hosting an annual Harbour Regatta, a feast of improvised fun for all the family. In this race of home-made paddle boats (shades of ‘It’s a Knockout’!) the St Annes Board Mill team fires flour at its rivals.

“Older ports tend to be chronically short of space,” stressed a report issued by the Port of Bristol Authority (PBA). “The 1,000 acres currently being developed at West Dock are backed up by another 1,000 acres of surrounding land.

“The planned dock is adjacent to the deep-water channel of the port approaches with a minimum of dredging required.”

The huge lock, the PBA said, was able to take massive ships which even the Panama Canal couldn’t handle.

So the day that the Queen and Duke, accompanied by Princes Andrew and Edward, arrived was a very proud one for Bristol and Avonmouth.

Britannia locked in at 9am and the royals were piped ashore to a welcoming escort provided by the crew of HMS Bristol. The Queen was greeted by the Lord Mayor, Councillor Ted Wright, and various other VIPs.

Five thousand people - drawn by lottery due to lack of space - cheered as she unveiled a commemorative plaque and granted the dock its ‘Royal’ title.

The Queen and Prince were then driven in a glass-topped Rolls Royce along the M4 and M5 to Filton High School, where, to the delight of a 30,000-strong crowd, they went on a 20-minute walkabout.

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Then it was Thornbury (Her Majesty was presented with a jar of bramble jelly by Thornbury WI) and on via the M32 into Bristol’s centre where, to a 21-gun salute, she reviewed contingents of the Avon Reserve Forces.

From there they went in an open carriage to Temple Meads, through Queen Square, over Redcliffe Bridge and past St Mary Redcliffe church, where the bells were pealing in welcome. The royals went on to Keynsham, Weston and returned to (Royal!) Portbury Dock for a VIP reception on the royal yacht.

Those not lucky enough to be aboard could hear the band on Britannia playing ‘Life on the Ocean Wave’ and ‘Rule Britannia’ as fireworks lit up the night sky. Later that night she left for Ulster on the next leg of their Silver Jubilee tour.

The Royal Yacht Britannia arrives at Avonmouth, August 8.

The City Council later presented a set of newly minted coins to every baby born in the city on the day of the visit.

If the summer of 1977 saw the undisputed triumph of Royal Portbury Dock, it also coincided with one of the most expensive commercial disasters ever to be associated with the city – New Smoking Material.

Tobacco was still an important local employer and despite the evidence of the harmful effects, almost half the adult population of the UK were smokers in 1977.

The numbers were declining even then, and an increasingly powerful anti-smoking lobby was calling for more and more restrictions on tobacco consumption.

The tobacco industry fought back with all the wiles that huge marketing budgets put at its disposal, from advertising and branding to the now-forgotten coupons which came in many packets and could be collected and exchanged for consumer goods. A bit like Green Shield Stamps for smokers.

That summer, Imperial Tobacco unveiled one of the most expensive and determined bids by Bristol’s tobacco industry to secure its future in the form of its tobacco substitute.

Imperial had been working with ICI for some years to develop the cellulose-based “New Smoking Materia” (NSM) which would be blended with regular tobacco in the new cigarettes.

The research process notoriously involved testing on beagles, which attracted a lot of media attention and the fury of animal rights campaigners.

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Will’s new line of cigarettes was launched with a great deal of hype and advertising in June. The R&D for the new product had cost £7m, and now £8m more was to be spent on advertising and marketing.

“This is a momentous development,” said Tony Garrett, the Imperial Tobacco group chairman. The firm claimed it would be “the biggest revolution in smoking since Sir Walter Raleigh introduced tobacco from the New World to the Court of Queen Elizabeth I”.

By July 4, it was planned that they would be on the shelves of all Wills’ 30,000 outlets throughout the UK. Bristol was to be the main distribution centre for the West.

Smokers were not impressed; there was nothing wrong with NSM if you didn’t mind the idea of inhaling processed wood shavings, but basically what you were getting was a cigarette with less tobacco in it.

Half the adult population were smokers, but their numbers were falling. Imperial Tobacco had a cunning plan to save the industry, a plan which was an expensive failure.

The taxman delivered the coup de grace. The company had banked on NSM cigs being taxed at a lower rate because, well, there was less tobacco in them, and they were more “healthy” and so surely the government would want to encourage people to switch to them?

Less tax meant NSM cigarettes could be sold more cheaply. The Revenue wasn’t having any of that, though. NSM cigarettes cost the same as regular ones (52p for a pack of 20 King Size.)

“The long-awaited new cigarettes, with tobacco substitute, have burst onto the Bristol scene with about as much impact as a damp match,” said the Post.

A reporter spoke to Edward Vining, who had a shop in Two Mile Hill, and who said: “Sales of the new cigarettes are terrible.

“They are just not moving at all. They are just sitting there looking at me. They are no cheaper than other cigarettes, so there is no incentive for people to change – that is the only incentive that would work. ”

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That autumn, Wills incinerated 100 million NSM cigarettes with a retail value of £2.75 million.

But Bristol was still thinking big. At the end of the summer, Energy Secretary and Bristol South East MP Tony Benn put the Severn Barrage back on the table.

A hydro-electric scheme using the tidal range of the Severn had been talked about since the 1970s, but was always abandoned when the costs were considered.

The Bearpit in 1977, still looking nice, clean and modern.

Now, the House of Commons Science & Technology committee was recommending that a detailed feasibility study be carried out into the project, and Benn was a firm supporter, against the more cautious counsel of some of his civil servants and the Central Electricity Generating Board.

The barrage might cost four billion pounds or more – a lot now, an unimaginable sum then – but it was exactly the sort of bold and visionary thing the man who had saved the Concorde project liked.

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Times were changing, though. For the first time in the long history of talk about a barrage, environmental concerns were being raised. Friends of the Earth were horrified that Steep Holm island, recently turned into a bird sanctuary, would form part of the barrier, while academics at Bristol University Zoology department expressed concerns about the effect on wildlife, particularly if the huge amount of water impounded by the barrier turned into a stagnant pond received the sewage of Bristol and every other town around it.

Also in the local news in ’77

City were having a good run. Just. On May 19 City manager Alan Dicks (left) and Coventry City manager Gordon Milne celebrated a 2-all draw when enabled both sides to stay in the First Division.

Alan Dicks, Bristol City manager (left) and Gordon Milne, Coventry City manager celebrate after the 2-2 game which meant that both teams are to remain in the 1st division. 19th May 1977

Following complaints from nearby residents, the Council took the promoters of speedway racing at Eastville Stadium to the High Court in a bid to get it to stop. They said it was a noise nuisance, what with the roar of the bikes, the shouts of spectators and commentary and music over the loudspeakers.

Local politics was bound up in rivalry between Bristol City Council and Avon County Council. The new county was only three years old, a creation of the Heath government and while it made perfect sense as an administrative unit, it was hated by traditionalists (the “back to Somerset brigade”) and by Bristol’s Labour party which saw it as a Tory plot to incorporate Bristol into an area where Conservative voters tended to be in the majority.

Industrial action was a feature of the times. In July, the Grunwick dispute over trade union recognition, was gathering pace and Postal workers in Bristol voted to black all Grunwick mail which, they had discovered, had been sent to the film processing laboratory from Westbury-on-Trym and other places in the West.

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Meanwhile, members of actors’ union Equity were picketing the Hippodrome in an effort to save it, and six other provincial theatres, from closure. Parading in front of the 2,000-seat theatre, they were asking passers-by to sign a petition to keep it open.

The summer also saw the reappearance, for the first time in 50 years, of sheep grazing on Durdham Down. Bemused and delighted passers-by were later informed by the Post that Emma and Flower were from the University’s farm at Langford. And it wasn’t even a scientific experiment; the University, as Commoners, was merely exercising its right to keep sheep here should they wish to.